


self rp dump

by HelmetParty (orphan_account)



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 22:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16795669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/HelmetParty
Summary: a dump of self-rps done on tumblr that ill probably never finish. warning: these are copied and pasted, so it looks like shit! also beware of triggers, usually stated in the first line.





	1. mari and ephraim visit a demon cave

  
06/26/2018  
Mari feels primitive, and she's said this several times. She's talked about nothing else as they fly above the night sky, in the clouds, almost peaceful. Mari has her motorcycle helmet on, and Ephraim dons her usual skin tight armor and pointed helmet.  
"A fucking cave" Mari says for the 20th time. "A cave. A cave!"  
Ephraim's robotic voice laughs.  
Mari groans again. "It's like you want us to die. We're going to go in here and be ambushed."  
Ephraim agreed, to some point - she wouldn't trust a demon, not now not ever. But this was the only lead they had. The only person; rather, thing - that would talk to them.  
No demon would come within 200 miles of The Alien Gals, as they had been called.  
"It will be fine," she says over their headsets. "Not even an ambush can hurt us, and they must know this."  
She knows Mari is scared. She doesn't show it, Mari never shows anything but anger. But its written on her face. Fear. Even normal things, like killing demons and abusers, inhuman creatures and supernatural spawn, scares her.  
Ephraim feels great guilt in letting this frightened girl continue on her way. She should have sent her to a parallel universe where everything was normal while she still had the chance.

Ephraim's helmet beeps and she stops in her path.  
Mari tries to stop, but it takes her several seconds to come to a complete halt at the speed they we're going. She slowly flies back, though it is more like gliding.  
"You need to stick the landing," Eph mentions. Mari scoffs.  
"The cave is just below us, it seems" She says, and begins a quick decent straight down below the grey clouds and into the now visible forest.  
Mari descends, but she sways back and fourth and goes very slowly.  
Ephraim stands on the ground of the forest floor and listens to the bugs crying in the night.   
"There are sounds, this is good," she says, her mask lit up with information. "The cave is just below us, indeed."  
"Below us?" Mari says. She growls and puts her hands on her head and walks in a circle in anger.


	2. super historically inaccurate gwas / lafayette

Even so, five weeks pass.  
Washington has everything planned, albiet he doubts himself enough to reconsider.   
It's morning on the 25th of June. The sun, thankfully, shines, and already the servants have come and gone. Washingtons hands hesitate on his leather bag, though he Huff's and works up the courage to pick it up. It's slung against his shoulder, and he walks out the door of one of the only finished rooms of the estate.  
"Good morning, General," says one of the servants, Abigail. "Where are you heading, sir?"  
"I'll be gone for a few days. Continue your duties as normal, and inform others only if asked." Abigail, a black woman wearing a particularly high end dress, nods, but doesn't look down or bow.  
This Is something Washington doesn't particularly dislike. Major John Andre was her previous "owner", though she was not a slave, rather a servant and a mistress. He treated her as an equal despite being a white man, and Washington thought it cruel to make her lesser.  
Perhaps he has changed, he believes.  
Either way, he walkes outside of the Estate and to the dirt road. There is a carrige already waiting as he called for it yesterday.  
"General," the man says.  
George smiles, somewhat. "Just George."  
The carrige clops down the dirt road, at a steady pace. It will be almost a week until they arrive.  
This was not a cheap affair, but Lafayette was worth the travel expenses.  
Three days pass, almost riding constantly. The horses he had hired were strongest at best, but even they were still horses. They required a lot of sleep and food, but luckily, Washington planned for that too.  
"Any water round here?" The carrige man asks, who Washington learned his name was Michael. "Thought we would have reached town by now."

"The path I chose is one far from town, my friend. There is a river this way."  
They reach, by point of Washington, a river bank and campsite.  
"Who's is this, you think?" Michael asks, letting his horses down into the water.  
"Mine," he replies. "Well, an old camp of mine. Seems like someone's used it since my last departure." Washington, albiet not exactly a man of organization at all times, never left his camps in such disrepair. He honestly couldn't even really believe the tent was still up, so at least there was that.  
He heads inside and looks around, realizing it was clearly ransaked.

Queens rangers  
Sorry  
Caleb  
"Brewster" he says, a laugh in his voice. This must have been ages ago. A few years maybe.  
It brings back memories of the war and he's almost happy thinking about those boys. Caleb, Ben, Culper.  
He's drawn out of his thoughts when he hears a scream.  
Washington almost instantly reaches into his roat for a knife. His pistol was in his bag, but no accredited general of war goes anywhere without a weapon.  
He steps out of the tent, knife in hand, looking freviously around himself to see where the scream came from.  
There is nothing but silence.  
Washington goes into a mode rarely seen. He becomes quiet, his eyes are on high alert, and his ears are open to any sound.  
He is standing deathly still and assuming his surroundings when he feels cold metal on the back of his head.  
"Put the knife down and your hands up to God if you want to live" says the voice. George recgonizes it instantly. He would know it anywhere.  
"Coming from the shadows is quite overdone, wouldn't you say?"  
The voice laughs. "I don't come from the shadows, I come from France."  
The gun lowers and Washington turns around.  
Lafayette stands there, an arrogant smile on his face. Washington laughs.  
They almost instantly go to hug each other. It's been months since they have last seen, since the war ended.   
"I thought your ship was due for 5 weeks!" George says, friendly smacking Laf's back. "No, for four, wanted to suprise you, stopped when I saw you off the road through the trees!"  
Washington is almost sad to not have , himself, been able to suprise him. But that sadness is short lived.  
"Aye, you said if I scream I got-" before Michael can finish as he exits behind a tree, Lafayette hands him a bundle of silk from his pack.  
"Americans" he remarks with a grin, and Washington smiles.  
:rewind::rewind:  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/06/2018  
A campfire roars and so does laughter.  
Two horses stand side by side, one black and one grey, nibbling at grass besides their trees. The fire is built outside of the tent, and two men sit around it.

"So, what did you say then?"  
Washington is grinning like an idiot. "Tell me what you think I said."  
Lafayette chuckles again, looking into the fire. "Son," he says in a mocking tone, "the last time I trusted a Setauket man, I had to trust a Tallmadge. Which is worse than death." Lafayette is laughing so hard he can barely talk. Washington laughs, too, not only because it's funny, but because his laughter is contagious. "And Tallmadge can't deliver a damn letter without killing an entire troop!"  
They both take bites here and there of squirrel they had caught, which they burn on a stick in the fire. Lafayette tells stories of France, of the anarchy there. George tells of Hamilton's antics and hidden war stories.  
Hours go by like minutes.(edited)  
Washington can't remember a time when he saw Lafayette so consistently happy.  
"You know," Lafayette says, the fire tiny and small. "I think the bed in the tend might still be useful, if you'd like it."  
"If Caleb Brewster was here then I doubt it's cleanliness," Washington jokes, and Laf chuckles. The Frenchman pulls a long white candle from his pack, and uses the fire to light it.  
"You think I'll have General Washington sleep on the cold hard ground?"  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/06/2018  
Washington goes to say something, but Marquis enters the brownish yellow colored tent before he can.(edited)  
The tent is definitely in disarray, however, it's not that bad. Laf chuckles and kicks a broken bottle of ink. "Be careful Your Excellency," he says. "Don't want to have to hobble home."  
Washington enters and sighs to himself. "We're not going home," he says. Lafayette turns around. "What? Where shall we be heading if not home?"  
George begins to put paper from the desk into a pile, almost like clockwork. "I figured we should go away for a few days. Trust me when I say you miss nothing but politics at the White house."  
Lafayettes smile turns down, and even distracted Washington notices. "Oh."  
George stops fiddling with the papers and looks at Lafayette. "Unless you want to go home."  
It takes a moment but Laf perks up. "No!" He says. "No, I want to stay with you. They'll be time to go home. I was just..." He sighs, and Washington puts a hand on his shoulder. "What is it, son?"(edited)  
His fatherly concern weighs on Lafayette and instantly comforts him. "I was just thinking of those who cannot come home."  
There is a pause, a hesitation. "John in particular, sir."  
"You needn't call me sir anymore, Marquis. The war is over, and now Lauren's is truly home."  
Lafayette, albiet sadly, smiles.   
It was Alexander and John before it was the three of them, yet their friendship was surely a triangle. They say war brings brothers in us all, and Lafayette held that dear to his heart.  
He snaps out of his sudden melancholy and walks towards the bed. It's covered in a faded fossil tinted sheet, and even knowing Caleb was there it still looked somewhat in order. There was a pillow, and only one, and the bed itself wasn't bigger than a twin.(edited)  
"Certainly not fit for a General, but I assume it better than the alternative," he says cooly. "I'm sure it will suffice, dont you agree?" He turns to look at Washington, whos brow is raised. "Seems a bit cramped for the both of us."  
Lafayette is almost offended.  
"For you it fits well, sir. Plus, I brought my own blanket."  
"Nonsense," George says. "Though cramped, it will fit both of us well. I would not see that my most trusted friend sleep on the floor."  
It's not like Lafayette dislikes the idea of being so closely together with the General, in fact it's one he's thought about quite often. However, there are rumors Washington found a woman, that even reached him in France.

Lafayette, even so, continued his flattery in letters. He wonders why this bothers him so much.

He goes to exit the tent to grab his blanket from his horse, which was the black mare. He leaves the candle on the table and can feel George's eyes on him as he leaves.  
When he comes back, the general is shirtless, only his pants left on his self. Lafayette has to hold back a gasp, he feels his mouth hang open.   
Washington is, as reputation preceeds him, quite a large man. He's built, that's for sure, toned and scarred. He's much unlike Lafayette who was, also, toned, but small, at least compared to Washington.  
And it's not like he hasn't seen Washington shirtless. While in war, you will see plenty of sausage and too many sausages in bagels. It's something that he's grown accustomed to, but even still Washington is a sight for sore eyes.(edited)  
"It is quite hot, I hope you do not mind," Washington says, stretching his arms. "It's almost July after all."  
Lafayette quickly composes himself.  
"Of course," he prays the General couldn't hear anything in his voice. "But at night it's cold as artic waters."(edited)  
The sun had just gone down and it is, indeed, getting quite cold. "Did you bring a blanket, sir?"  
George smiles a bit and shakes his head. "I did, but I left it in the carrige after I sent him away."  
"Then you must use mine," Lafayette offers almost instantaneously. "I insist."  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/06/2018  
Lafayette pushes a Royal purple quilt into the hands of Washington. "Custom made in France, a gift to me when I came back from the war" he says, almost proud. "Though it matches better to be yours."  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/06/2018  
Washington palms the fabic in his hands for a moment. It's soft, seems elegantly woven and has a smell that he can't particularly place.   
"No, I could never-"  
"I insist," Lafayette says, "It's yours. At least allow so for tonight."  
George looks into Marquis' eyes, and he feels absolutely helpess.  
"Then allow me to compromise," he says quietly. "Share me this bed."  
"Sir, I couldn't possibly-"   
Washington raises his hand and Lafayette stops talking instantly.   
"Allow me this one comfort for you. It would be a dishonor to allow you to sleep elsewhere whilst I have the comfort of a bed."  
Lafayette desperately feels the need to counter his offer, but it was common knowledge that when George thought he was right there was little chance of change.  
All he does is nods, and he prays the man cannot see his face redden with embarrassment, at least he prays so in this time of night.  
"Will you be wearing that to bed?" George asks after a minute of silence. Lafayette still dons his regular clothes, all in their blue and purple selves. He shakes his head, and hesitantly begins to take off his shirt knowing full well Washingtons eyes are watching.  
(The man was never particularly good at pretending he wasn't watching, which is a reason he never spied for himself.)  
July 10, 2018  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/10/2018  
{{ TW: unsafe sex, daddy kink, blood, loss of virginity, minor incest kink undertones, cuddling, period typical homophobia, internalized homophobia, cheating, nasty gross cum stuff probably, age gap ship, EXTREME HISTORICAL INNACURACY, IT MAKES ME CRINGE }}(edited)  
Lafayette undresses himself quite slowly. He feels hot under the watchful eye of Washington, even in this darkness. He does his best to face away from the other man, more for himself as he would rather not look him in the eyes right now. The tension in the room is undeniable, at least on Lafayette's point of view.  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/10/2018  
He undresses himself to his pants, and only his pants. He puts his clothes into a tidy pile under the desk, next to his shoes and socks.

Lafayette is cleanly shaven, something someone might tell you is the most un-french thing ever concived. But he prefered himself this way, it felt comfortable and sanitary. There are scars on his chest and on his back, the most prominent one a bullet hole on his shoulder. Washington remembers that one, and he remembers telling his personal psycican to 'treat him as he were my son'. Although it didn't hit anything important and Lafayette was back on his feet days later, it was still an incredibly horrifying realization of their own mortality.  
"Sir" Washington hears.  
It seems he lingered a little too long.  
Washington snaps out of his daze and looks down at the bed. "I remember when you got shot that day," he says cooly. "I've never been so scared."

"Perhaps it best to not linger on the past," Lafayette says in rebuttal. His voice is kind and small, a shock in comparison to his loud and clear voice as of earlier.

Washington begins to lay on the bed, finding the position nearest to the tent wall but not close enough to fall off. There is little room left next to George's giant form, but still he holds the blanket up and beckons for Lafayette to join him.  
In his mind, he braces himself for what would surely be a distaster.  
Lafayette slowly joins Washington in the bed. Like a parent, Washington pulls the blanket around Lafayette and tucks it in beneath him. They're chest to chest, bare, and each can feel each other in whole. 'This is probably something Washington is used to with the war and all,' Lafayette thinks to himself. 'This is probably normal.'

Lafayette's face is, because of his short stature compared to Washingtons, directly aimed at his chest and neck. His arms, with nowhere to go, are forced between himself and Washington; essentially resting on the man's chest. Washington has an arm on Lafayette's hip, but over the blanket. His other arm is under the pillow away from everything else.

Lafayette was not someone afraid or uncomfortable with tight corridors, but he feels incredibly anxious in this case.  
July 11, 2018  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/11/2018  
"I- perhaps it best if I sleep on the floor, sir. It's a bit cramped-"  
Washington stops him. "Will you not allow yourself this one comfort?" He asks, looking down with a soft smile. "Surely you deserve more than sleeping on the ground."  
Lafayette was in for the long haul now.  
He says nothing, and burries his head below the pillow; it's rather comfortable this way, and he would need to wriggle up if he wanted on it. (Which, he assumes, would be against his instinct to not be in further contact with Washington. He doubts his ability to contain himself if they laid face to face.)  
Lafayette lays there, his eyes closed, comfortable for the moment. He is beginning to relax, and for once he is somewhat comfortably warm instead of blistering hot or frigidly cold.   
It's only when he feels his hair move when he is alerted.  
It wasn't sudden, but it's something he had only realized now. Washington had been petting his hair, and Lafayette had not known for how long. Only now does he realize it.  
He suddenly feels insecure, and wonders if Washington was looking at him.  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/11/2018  
He takes a chance and, against his better judgement, opens his eyes.  
Washington is, in fact, looking at him. But instead of feeling weirded out, it's actually....comforting, in a way. It's not threatening, nor does it take a sinister feeling along with it.  
It feels almost good, somehow.  
"Sorry, did I wake you?", Washington says, his voice in a whisper. He still plays with Lafayette's curls under the pillow, and his hand still rests gently on his thigh.  
Lafayette doesn't know what to say. He's at a loss.   
"No," he says, quiet. "I've just been relishing in your touch."   
It's not something he planned to say, but he almost instantly regrets it. He's said things like this in his letters, but sometimes that talk is best left for letters.  
Lafayette feels, unlike his usual self, small.  
Washington is quiet, and this is something Lafayette fears. Though after a moment he chuckles quietly, and moves slightly closer to the other man.   
There's really no going back now.  
Lafayette, too, scoots himself closer to Washington. His hands rest naturally against the large chest of Washington, albiet gently. Even now Lafayette fears he has gotten to close to him, God knows what the men would say if they saw each other like this.   
It would ruin Washington, and that's all he can really think about.  
"Even in this darkness I see your beauty," Washington says. "The war seems to have agreed with you."  
"Please," Lafayette says, looking up into his eyes, a small mischievous smile on his face. "You're the one who lead a nation to victory, and yet you stand, still, great and mighty." Oh, Christ, his mind wanders. 'What else is great and mighty on him?'  
They're faces are close now, and Lafayette's heart is beating through his chest.   
"You have brought me this fame, Marquis," - Lafayette shivers at the use of his first name - "I would be nothing without you."  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/11/2018  
Taking a heavy chance, Lafayette leans up to place his lips upon Washington's. He is slow in his movements, allowing time for George to deny him, but to his fortune, instead the other man leans down to join him. Their lips meet, and Lafayette almost melts. He is not a man easily impressed, rather easily seduced, but this is also no common soldier.  
Washington's hand pulls his hips in close, his other hand cupping the back of his neck. their bodies touching completely. In their kiss, which now delved deeper into more as a make out, Lafayette is the one who pulls them away.  
"J'ai touché beaucoup d'hommes," he says in French, his eyes looking into Washington's with concupiscent. "Mais aucun plus beau que toi."  
Washington is not an expert in French, nor can he speak the language well (only bits and pieces), but he enjoys the way it sounds from his mouth.(edited)  
Lafayette's hands go from Washington's chest, and slowly make their way down to his groin. He sparingly touches around the area, feeling that he was already hardening. Lafayette himself was already almost to his full potential, he assumes because of his youth, though it feels more intense than hes felt in his life.   
He assumes this has something to do with the man he was with. This time it wasn't a secret hookup, quietly in the tent of some soldier - and, thankfully, he never used anything other than his mouth and his hands despite many of the American men wanting more.  
But this wasn't the time to linger on the thoughts of past men. This was, and may be the only, he could be with Washington like this.

Like he wanted to be.  
July 12, 2018  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/12/2018  
Washington sighs quietly as Lafayette cups his candle through his pants. Lafayette can feel it twitch, and he grins happily.  
He did this. Or, at least, he hopes.  
One hand goes back to George's chest where he gently rubs around his nipples. His other hand, stationed at his groin, cups and plays his balls over his pants. Lafayette watches Washington's face, albeit dark, he can barely see a thing. The candle light, which they had left on the beaten table, looked to be wearing thin.  
Lafayette can feel George's hand on his hips, but slowly he feels his hand slide down to caress his ass. The blanket is too thick, so there's barely any sensation, however.

He intends to rectify that.

Lafayette stops suddenly, pulling his head from where on George's neck he was biting and kissing. He gently pushes for Washington to roll onto his back, and to which the man does with no complaints. Lafayette sits up, puts his right leg over Washington's thigh, sitting now directly on top of him. He moves back, now instead resting on his lower thighs, where he can see the tenting in the older man's pants. It takes him but a second to begin pulling them down, and only another to pull down his underpants.  
From what Lafayette could gather just by feel, (and perhaps by secretly staring after all these years) Washington is definitely hung. This is, even in this lighting, proven to be true.  
"Oh, mon Dieu," Lafayette says to himself quietly. He takes Washington into his hands, one at his balls and another sparingly stroking him up and down.  
Lafayette was not a man that enjoyed doing these things quickly, be it that he never really did them at all. With the Americans it was always quick, and he resented this. They always used him, sometimes they would help him, but mostly it was one sided and never lasted longer than ten minutes, if five.(edited)


	3. wincest demon!dean unfinished

wheres your holiday spirit?  


selfrp-4  
Search

Welcome to the beginning of the #selfrp-4 channel.  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/09/2018  
Undoubtedly it was, in the beginning, why Dean decided to leave. Sam that is. Nothing felt the same anymore, not since the angel was forced from his body. And now with Castiel on the run, Kevin dead, and Sam distraught and absolutely cold, Dean felt nothing but his heart break in half.  
And really. He knew it was his fault.  
Sam went on tangents too often about how Dean was at fault. How he was the one who let the angel into Sam's body.  
And Sam, still even like this took some responsibility - "The blood is on my hands but you're the one who let this happen!" - and Dean knew it true, though it broke his heart that Sam couldn't understand why.  
"You'd do the same for me," is all he can say, and he instantly sees Sam's face contort. Dean knew what he was going to say, but he needed to hear it from his own mouth.  
"I wouldn't" Sam hesitates but not for long. It's cold and full of edges that dig into his chest.

Dean Winchester, for once, felt completely vunerable and foolish.

Sam continues. "I was willing to die," he says, in this tone of voice that makes Dean feel as though his soul still be trapped in hell. "And you took that from me."(edited)  
There's so many things he wants to say. Particularly, 'I saved your fucking life, you ass. You were going to die.'  
"You just couldn't stand the thought of being alone."  
This one hits Dean hard. It makes his blood boil.

He's sacrificed everything for Sammy. There's not a fucking thing he wouldn't do for him. And Sam says this. That he only saved him because he was selfish.  
Dean grabs his jacket and walks up the stairs and out the bunker. He doesn't turn to see Sam's expression, because frankly, it was nothing to him at that moment. He was nothing to Sam. At least it felt like it.  
Dean gets into the Impala and drives. He drives for hours and hours, along highway after highway. He doesn't know where he's going, but he's going somewhere.  
All he can think of is Sam.  
Dean loved him more than anything. Time and time again he saved his ass, even when Sam refused help. If Sam had just fucking listened more...  
Then when he did, in the trials, Dean begged him not to finish. He would have died. And, of free will, Sam agreed to quit them.  
And yet the fault falls on Dean.  
The only way for Sam not to die was to allow the angel inside of him - and yes, he did trick Sam into saying yes.  
But he would have died otherwise.  
It's not Dean's fault that the angel lied. It's not his fault that Sam had no control and let that angel kill people.  
Dean feels like a scapegoat. But even so, he still takes fault.  
He just wished Sam understood, or even loved him the same as Dean did him.  
Castiel had, at the time, tried to tell Dean that it wasn't his fault. "I've been human for a long time, and I understand now that humans make mistakes," he says, his gruff voice sympathetic. "And even you, Dean, aren't below being saved."  
He had many things on his plate now. Sam, Castiel and his grace, the first blade and Abbadon, Crowley, the tablets- it was overwhelming, and even with that and more Dean still went on casual cases and helped people.  
It takes a while but Dean eventually feels true.  
It's months later and, acquitted with the mark of Cain and somewhat of a 'back to normal' with Sam, he leaves Sam a letter - 'don't look for me'. It's simple and easy, something Sam should surely understand. When in purgatory and hell it's not like Sam fucking looked then, why should he look now?  
Dean felt true. The mark turned him into a demon; kind of. It was a sort of half and half thing.  
He and Crowley went to bars and parties, drinking and eating their way into hell. But even Crowley grew tired.  
And Sam went looking.  
Dean was, in his own words, 'thankfully robbed of sympathy'. He couldn't care less about what happened to anyone, which his actions proved by the body count of Innocents he fucked over and left corpses of.  
Even Sam, he didn't care for any longer.  
November 29, 2018  
wheres your holiday spirit?Yesterday at 2:41 AM  
But, in truth, Dean's heart was always tied to Sam's. Even as a cold, rutheless half-demon, he still loved him.


	4. turn shit

  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/11/2018  
{{ TW: period typical sexism, public outdoor sex, unsafe sex, M/M and F/M ships, older man/younger woman, somewhat historical inaccuracy }}(edited)  
Black petticoat.   
Black petticoat. The signial.  
Caleb repeats this in his head as he rides quick back to camp. Typically he would not ride to inform anyone he was visiting Setauket, but this is a special case. With Abraham being captured New York and all, only a few weeks ago, he needs to secure the ring. And this is news that deserves to be delivered to Ben.(edited)  
"Absolutely not, Tall-boy. I don't need-"  
"There's no arguing with me here, Caleb," his soft voice claims, Ben's royal blue uniform tight and ready to go. "You could run into trouble. And I need to see Abe personally about Culper Jr."  
If Caleb was sure about one thing, it's that Ben really is an ass.  
Caleb liked his boat, and more importantly, liked the time alone. Though he was a hardass, he liked to sing, something that Ben was pretty upset about. "You could get us caught," he says.   
But these were his waters. He knew when he was too close.  
Fog rolls over the lake and Caleb stops singing. It's silent, absolutely silent, except for the waters and the trees along the coastline.  
Caleb brings his boat to shore, and Ben is the first to walk off. Caleb ties his line to his regular tree and grabs his musket, carrying it on his shoulder.  
"You know maybe it wasnt so smart to wear that," Caleb says, playful. "Unless it was your idea to make sure every lobsterback shite knows we're here."  
Ben gives Caleb a side eye, and carefully begins to walk ashore and into the woods. Caleb follows close behind, his musket ready to fire if he sees red in the trees.  
Suddenly, with the snap of a twig, Ben stops walking; he raises his arm for Caleb to shut up, but instead he hears a laugh.  
"Damn, paranoid Tall-boy? It was just me, I-" Suddenly, they're both sprung into the air; both parties yell in suprise, and Caleb's musket falls from his hand.  
A trap.  
"What in the hell?!" Ben yells, but in a quiet scream. Caleb hisses, and begins to wriggle. "Shite, it's a boar trap."  
"Aboar trap?" Ben says angirly, kicking and throwing at the rope. He feels as though he to fall though, yet the prison holds him tight. "Yes, a trap! Stop moving, would ya!"  
In a huff, they both stop fighting the reign of rope.  
Their limbs are tangled in a mess of rope, and also each other. Their legs each rest at the other end of each other, their groins a mere penny from touching. Ben's arms are stuck beneath him, and Caleb's lay at his sides.(edited)  
"This could be a trap for us," Ben says, his voice soft and quiet as always. "It's possible Hewlett-"  
"Listen Tall-boy, ain't possible, alright?" Caleb isn't too sure, but he continues. "Abe just got back. Everyone thinks he's innocent. There's no way they know about this spot! Annie'll notice we haven't come and come to us."  
Caleb can see the discontent on Ben's face, but Ben sighs and nods.  
"How do we get down from here?"  
Caleb smiles. "Now you're asking the right questions! I've got a knife-" Caleb begins to wriggle and move, trying to get something from his pants, until Ben yells "stop!"  
Caleb hadn't noticed, but their groins are touching now - and Ben's face is reddened.  
"Shite," Caleb goes with, his smile fading. "Benny boy, please do not tell me-"  
"Just move back," he says, avoiding eye contact.  
"Listen, for all intents and purposes I would love to not be in contact with your ladies area, but my legs are stuck in the rope." Caleb does a little dance to try and move back, but he can't, and instead this creates more movement and friction between them, to which Ben huffs.  
Caleb really can imagine a thousand other ways he would prefer to spend this, apparently godless, Tuesday.  
Caleb looks around while avoiding eye contact. He can't see his knife below him...  
Then he sees it - his bag is stuck on one of the tree branches!  
He goes to reach for it, but it's too far away.  
Much too far.  
"Alright," Caleb sighs, looking at his brown leather bag. "We're going to have to swing for it."  
"What?" Is all Ben can say. He, for a second, makes eye contact - almost like his pants weren't peeking a bit.  
"If we swing, we can get momentum. If we get momentum, we can get my bag. And if we get my bag-"  
"-we can get your knife," Ben finishes. He smiles. "Good thinking."  
There is a moment's silence and hesitation between the two men - and then Caleb speaks.

"I, erm," he starts, uncomfortable. "About our...downstairs situation?" He points and Ben's face reddens again. "Uh, no harm no foul, just the friction, right?"

Ben looks to his right and is silent for a moment. "I- yeah." He looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn't. And thank God, too, because Caleb can't hide his shame behind his beard. (Abe will be hearing about that one, again.)


	5. more turn shit

wheres your holiday spirit?07/13/2018  
{{ TW: non-con tortue, blood, PTSD, themes of revenge, humiliation, edging, orgasm denial, mentions of murder, general edgy shit, homophobia, implications of older/younger relationships }}  
{{ Pairing: none, but could be Caleb/Simcoe? }}(edited)  
Caleb remembers what Simcoe had said that night - "A beast feels no shame in howling when wounded." Rather, something along those lines.

His memoy is shady from the, you know, torture.  
Simcoe stood true to this. He felt no shame in screaming, howling like a dog. Though, just the same as the first time Caleb got his hands on the Tory bastard, Simcoe still holds his sarcastic and 'better than you' attitude between cuts.  
"Ah," Simcoe huffs, his face relatively clean of blood. His chest, however, is smothered in the sticky red goo. Caleb was cutting him right where he was cut that night, hoping to make the wounds personal. "Please don't tell me you're giving up?"   
Simcoe's voice is light and high pitched as always, though breathy. This, even with the supposed beast caged, made Caleb afraid.   
How could such a monster be so gentle looking? So gentle sounding?  
wheres your holiday spirit?07/13/2018  
"Don't worry yerself much, we're just gettin started," Caleb says, a smile on his bearded face.

Secretly he's more than terrified.   
Secretly he's even more terrified Simcoe knows it.  
Simcoe looks into Caleb's eyes, and it's only then does he laugh.

"In fact, I can tell ye it ends right now if you just tell us where Woody is." Caleb is palming a sharp kinfe in his hands, pacing around Simcoe's tied up body. He is trying to seem as menacing as possible, but he's unsure if it's working.  
"You know, the man you think is this Culper fella."  
Simcoe chuckles again.  
"I know this wont end with the location of your best spy, it's already been made too personal. You'll kill me the moment you have what you need. Tell me, whaler, do you report directly to Washington or do you kneel at his boys?" He hesitates a moment, but continues with a grin. "Forgive me. It's them who kneel for Washington."(edited)  
Caleb smacks Simcoe across the face, and not lightly.  
"There's a lot I tolerate, but I won't tolerate you talkin' about ol G'Wash like that." He's smiling as he holds onto Simcoe's chin, putting their faces close together.

Still, Simcoe is unbroken.  
Caleb throws his head away and goes back to his knife. He cuts a sudden and deep gash into Simcoe's shoulder, and Simcoe breathes in harshly. He's gritting his teeth and, from the looks of it, is very tense.

Still he smiles, still he laughs, still he comments.

Caleb starts to think he's losing his mind. He can't get anywhere with him. He feels like he's running circles.  
It takes only another few moments for Caleb to notice that Simcoe's pants have tented.   
Simcoe's head is leaning against the back of the chair, that shite eating grin plastered on to his ugly mug. He's breathing shallowly, his chest portruding in a way that almost looks like he's asking for it.

"Christ," Caleb says, a hand running through his blood tainted beard. "You're getting off to this, you fuckin' piece of shit?"  
Simcoe's eyes are closed, and he chuckles.

"Please, don't credit yourself too much, Brewster. Us beasts love the fight." He sits up. "You would know that if you weren't passed out the entire time I spent playing with you."  
Images, feelings, memories; all from the night Simcoe put his blade to his body come flooding back.

Even now he can't look at fire without seeing a glimpse.


	6. dbh shit

{{ TW: android/human ship, older man/younger man, nsfw, blowjobs, sweat kink??, d:bh minor spoilers, blood mention, suicide mention, basically connor doesn't understand sex }}  
== mostly posting so my draft on ao3 doesn't get deleted ==(edited)  
Connor, albeit a machine almost perfected, knows very little about human sexuality. Of course, he has his own penis - that's not the issue - he just never really got around to 100% understanding it. It seems that to humans, sexuality plays a major role in their culture and media. There is constantly sex scandals on television, shows centered around it, advertisements for it. Connor doesn't really see the appeal, perhaps considering he is a virgin - perhaps considering he's never even touched himself down there. He just never felt the need to do so.   
It really isn't until the Eden Club that Connor notices.  
He is absolutely focused - it's his programming, after all, to not be bothered by distractions that typical humans would fall for. That is why when he is suddenly caught staring at the dancers, particularly the males, that he himself is caught off guard.  
"Connor!" Hank yells, going to talk with the police already on the scene. Had he been looking too long? Software Instability rings in the corner of his eyes. Though, even now, he continues to ignore it.


	7. more of my ocs

[[ TW: blood, drugs, NSFW content, dubious consent, m/m/f, poly m/m/f, kinks, murder, other triggering content ]]  
"I am so seriously done with you."   
"Come on, Nathan, you can't seriously-"  
"No. No! Don't even talk to me right now!"  
Nathan hisses his words and walks, absolutely pissed, to his room. The pale white walls with those obnoxiously expensive paintings taunt him to smash the fuck out of them. If Russel didn't leave him alone in the next five seconds, he just might have to.  
"I'm sorry, you weren't around-"  
"What part of shut your fucking mouth can you not POSSIBLY understand?" He stops in his tracks, and although he's much shorter than the other man, he still tries to look intimidating. "You lied to me," he takes a step forward. "And you put us in danger. We don't let people go, you....you!"  
Russel sighs and, unintimidated, puts his hands on Nathan's hips. "Come on, babe, I knew the guy! He won't go-"  
Nathan pushes him. Albiet not very hard. He was, at most, 125 pounds. He was 5'5", black haired, the spitting image of a generic rich teenager. But Russel was strong. 175 pounds, never caught in anything but a flannel. The spitting image of a generic country poorhouse boy, but better taken care of. (Russel was indeed a poor country boy, but he was also well groomed, well spoken, and very well ant racist - unlike the generics.)  
Russel huffs, and clicks his tounge. "Come on, man, I told you nothing is going to happen! He's a friend, he won't say shit!"   
"I'm sure he won't run to the police about being kidnapped and almost killed. Are you seriously that fucking stupid?"  
Nathan continues to his room, but Russel grabs his wrist. "Nathan," - he's struggling to get out of his grip - "nothing is going to happen."  
"I'm going to make sure of that when I kill him" He replies, an angry smile on his face. "Once a fucking again, I'm left to clean up your mess, you-"  
It takes less than two seconds for Russel to slam the smaller boy against the wall. It's quick, and it knocks the breath out of him as he audibly gasps.   
"I fuckin told you," Russel whispers, clearly fed up. "Nothing is going to happen, and you're not gonna do anything."  
He's clearly alarmed, but still even now Nathan takes control. "Oh yeah? And who the fuck do you think you are?"  
A tug of the hair and Nathan gasps again. His neck, now exposed and vunerable, feels the hot breath of Russel sending shivers down his spine.   
"Someone who clearly has to put you into place."  
\--  
"Somebody once told me the world was gonna roll me. I ain't the sharpest-"  
"Hold on, I'll be right back."  
A woman picks up her cellphone from a rusty old desktable and quietly exists the family room, occupied by several other family members. They seemingly take no notice, except for the oldest woman who gives her a smile on her way out. The woman takes a step outside into the pale moonlight, and picks up the noisy phone.  
"Russel, whats up?"  
"Yo, you free?"  
"Family night with my nibbly, actually. Something with the startup?"  
"Oh. Well, figured you'd want in on this, but nevermind."  
"In on what?"  
"Oh, you know, fucking the shit out of Nathan."  
The woman stops for a moment, quiet, staring into the night sky.  
"I'll literally be right there."  
"Sweet."  
Suddenly, the woman giggles, squeals a little bit. Excitedly she enters back into the home and into the family room. "Sorry Nibbly, I just forgot that I have a project due tomorrow that we didn't even start," she's grabbing her jacket and phone charger. "It's about those boys again isn't it?" The old woman says, laughing. "They're my project partners nibbly! I'll see you later!" This time, the entire room says goodbye to her as she quickly storms out.  
\--  
"Geez, Bo, I thought you would be a no show."  
"Bitch, I straight up ran the fuck here. It's like a mile."  
Russel takes her coat and throws it onto the chair next to the front door of the massive house. "Are the Kales gonna be home tonight?"  
Russle scoffs. "The only Kale we have to worry about is Nathan."  
"Speaking of," shes happily tapping her foot, "where is he?"  
Russel grins and takes her to his room. He opens the door slowly, and Bo almost fainted right then and there.  
It was no secret that Nathan was a control freak. He was always the one to dictate everything in their small, yet largely fucked up group. To see him with his eyes blindfolded and his arms tied around his back, his ankles tied to the bedpost, completely vunerable, was something else entirely.  
"Oh my god," she says, her mind already wandering to the possibilities. "Jesus!" Nathan hisses. "I can't believe you called her here!"  
"Yeah yeah, we know you're jealous," Russel says. He climbs on the left side of the bed, essentially cuddling the almost naked man. He's gentle at first, but he takes Nathan's jaw tightly into his hand and foribly exposes his neck. "We know you want me all to yourself, but tonight you gotta share."


	8. pharah/ana

  
wheres your holiday spirit?08/29/2018  
{{ tw: incest+kink, nsfw, PTSD, war, death }}(edited)  
wheres your holiday spirit?08/29/2018  
Ana had been home for over a month now. Pharah was in disbelief, her mother, alive. She had been angry at first and in a way still was, but had grown to have her mother back. There was still so much unanswered, and Pharah could barely stand to hear her mother's voice trying to explain why she had been dead for so long. She felt abandoned most of all, but after a while, was just happy to have her mother back. Ana have been watching and listening from a distance, so when Pharah tried to tell her all that has happened all those years she have been gone, she was shocked to find out that most was already known. Mostly, Pharah cried, and so did Ana too. When Reinhardt has found out he was also crying, yelling and almost crushing Ana to death with his bear hugs. Watching then reuinite was happy, and it felt like they were finally home again.

They had both attended her funeral of an empty casket, unknowing. And in each of them lied a little bit of anger.

Past the initial pleasantries, things got tense. Currently, the three hid out in Eichenwalde, Reinhardts former home and their current safe house. Pharah had chosen this location in particular to serve as a temporary place where they could regroup and coordinate a plan of action; they had been recalled back to Overwatch. Well, Ana and Rein. But Pharah was unwavered in her decision to come, too, even though her mother persisted.  
"Fareeha, it's dangerous. You're strong, but this is one thing that you cannot do."

Taller than her mother, she towered over her. She's wearing a black jumpsuit and is scrubbing her armor clean at the bridge, standing only now as she was going to get more water. "I can, and I will. Overwatch needs all the help it can get. I thought you would be proud of me following in your footsteps."

She pushes past her mother only to have Ana's firm grip attach to her wrist.

"You will die."

Fareeha huffs and breaks free of her mother's hand, not looking back as she walks the bridge.


End file.
